


Percussion

by ImJaebabie



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Fluff, M/M, anyway this isnt about him!!!, drummer!mark, skater!jeno, why is jaemin in every single story i write now kfhsdhjfs he's so greedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImJaebabie/pseuds/ImJaebabie
Summary: If Mark doesn't cool down fast, he'll definitely pass out. He just might do that anyway.





	Percussion

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer that i know nothing about actual marching bands or drum lines or skateboarding. i can do none of these things. or football, for that matter.

-

Sweat trickles in rivulets down Mark’s neck like tiny streams, gathering into larger rivers down his back and chest as he stumbles away from the football field towards the parking lot. He can hardly see for the salt stinging in his eyes, which he can’t clear behind his glasses with these damned gloves on. All he needs to do is get to the bathrooms where he can remove as much of his uniform as possible and breathe for a few minutes.

The parking lot radiates all the sun it has soaked in throughout the day, one of the hottest early September Friday’s on record in the county, and it seems like every joule of heat latches onto Mark and roasts him. Another bead of sweat slides into Marks eye and he squints, dizzy, and trips over his shiny black shoes toward the shape of brick building he’s aiming for. He bumps into someone’s truck as he passes it, steadying himself against it briefly before his shoes hit grass again, and the dizziness surges. There’s maybe ten feet between him and the building with the restrooms but he doesn’t quite make it. Mark trips over his own feet, reeling, and topples to his knees; he gasps a breath, tugging at the constricting strap of the tall hat that feels like a steamer on his head until it comes loose. He lets it drop, no idea where it rolls, and crawls until he reaches the concrete and the minimal shade at the side of the building. As he leans against the vaguely cooler brick, Mark knows the entire school is spinning, he’s sure of it.

“Fuck…” The word comes out in a puff, in frustration that he can’t wrangle the gloves off his hands. They’re too swollen from the heat, just like his feet feel pasted to the insides of his shoes. He takes off his glasses instead, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes and disregarding how it’ll stain the gloves. Mark doesn’t regret giving up the last available summer uniform out of the closet for Jaemin to wear, taking a winter one instead, but he does absolutely despise the school for not funding the band—and consequently the drumline—enough for them to have sufficient uniforms. He knows the rest of the band is suffering right now too; he saw the streaks of sweat crossing Jaemin’s back under his snare drum straps. But Mark is the only one who had to excuse himself from the field, gasping out the word ‘bathroom’ and making a run for it.

It’s a miracle he made it through half-time. Vaguely, Mark can hear the sounds of the game in the distance, but he can’t tell what minute they’re in over this weird repeating sound he can’t figure out— _roll, click click, roll, click click,_ and so on. Head tilted back against the wall and legs stuck out in front of him, Mark ignores it and sucks in panting breaths; he has no idea what time he has to cool down and get it together.

The weird rolling sound gets closer, then suddenly stops.

“Uh hey, I think this might be yours?” a voice says unexpectedly. Mark blinks up at the person, but they’re too blurry. The shape the person holds out to him resembles his hat, though.

Mark shuts his eyes again. “Yeah. Just drop it there.”

There’s a clacking sound as the stiff rim settles on the concrete near his leg. He keeps focusing on his breathing, waiting for some of the nausea to pass.

The person doesn’t leave, contrary to Mark’s expectation. Instead they crouch down beside him and provide a shadow for his face. “Are you okay?” the person asks, his low voice laced with surprising concern.

He doesn’t have the energy to act tough. “No, man, I’m not.”

“Hot?”

“I’m fucking dying.” As he says it, the nausea redoubles, sending his head twisting, and he pulls his knees up to lean his elbows on so he can brace his head. A groan slips past his lips unbidden. “Just...just need to get inside the bathroom...splash some water on my face...” Mark jerks a thumb back at the building behind him.

Whoever is next to him is quiet for a moment, then: “Hate to break it to you, but this is the team’s equipment shed. Bathroom’s on the opposite side.”

Mark curses weakly, feeling his hope melt like a cheap candle. Somehow the knowledge that he’s nowhere near relief makes him feel even worse, his hearing starting to muffle in addition to his sight.

“Ok, you know what, you stay here and keep breathing, I’ll be right back.” The shadow leaves Mark’s face, and footsteps retreat from him taking the mystery voice with them, before giving way to the rolling sound again.  

Too dizzy to be aware of much else, Mark concentrates on finally getting his gloves off. He tosses them aside, and fumbles with the buttons keeping the thick jacket tight at his neck. Those he manages to loosen, and pulls the jacket open, shrugging it half-way down his shoulders; beneath, his white undershirt clings to him, soaked through with sweat. It’s a small relief to be that much freer.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the wheels approach again, and Mark strains to focus his dizzy, half-blind eyes. The sound is a skateboard, he finally realizes, though it’s owner remains a mystery. The person is wearing mainly black, and has dark hair. That’s about all he can make out. He wonders how they aren’t burning up just like him.

They crouch again at his side. “Oh, you already…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Something cold and wet presses against Mark’s forehead. “Can you hold that?”

He does, laying his hand over the one keeping it in place, and feeling fingers slide free. A moment later, another cool, wet cloth touches at the base of his neck, covering his collarbones, and one more behind over his nape. Cold water seeps down from these and mingles with his already sweat-drenched shirt. The relief is instant.

“Oh my god,” Mark gushes, “thank you—“

“Jeno.”

His relief turns to stress in less than a second, and the heat that blossoms under his skin has nothing to do with his unseasonal uniform or the weather. Mark hastily wipes the cloth on his forehead over his face, clearing what sweat out of his eyes he can, and reaches for his glasses, because he must have misheard.

The clarity his prescription lenses bring says otherwise.

“T-thanks, Jeno.” Mark sincerely hopes his general state of badness covers over the shake in his voice. But he can’t keep it steady, not when Jeno Lee is gently dabbing a cool, damp cloth at his forehead, a toned arm hovering in Mark’s vision—Jeno is wearing black, yes, but the cut-away tank leaves his shoulders and arms bare, and dips low down his sides; Mark can see faint shadows of ribs under creamy pale skin.

It’s the genuine smile and cat-like crescent eyes that come with it that really steal Mark’s breath again, though. Maybe...also the curved silver bar through the center of Jeno’s bottom lip. Possibly also that.

“You’re welcome, Mark,” the younger boy replies, reaching for one of two water bottles Mark now notices at his side. He pours some into the wad of paper towels in his hand, refreshing it, and lifts the lot of it to the far side of Mark’s neck. The cold wetness against his pulse point eases some of the continuing waves of internal heat that seem to pump through the drummer’s blood, and he sighs involuntarily.

Then startles. “Wait,” Mark asks, eyes flicking up to Jeno’s again, “you know who I am?”

“We go to the same school.”

“It’s a big school, though.”

Jeno shrugs. “You’re senior lead on the drumline. People know you.”

 _No,_ you’re _the one people know_ , Mark thinks. The infamy of the Lee brothers was not something lost on Mark; he was there when Jeno’s older brother, Taeyong, marched down the center of the football field and pulled off the quarterback’s helmet, kissing Jaehyun Jung squarely on the mouth in the middle of the homecoming game (which they won, breaking a ten-year losing streak). Mark had only been a freshman, but he’d never forget that. When Jeno had arrived at the school the next year, sporting the same silver lip ring his older brother had been known for, people took note.

So there’s far less reason for Jeno to be even remotely aware of Mark. _Ah right_ , but he remembers now. Jaemin knows Jeno. Jeno must know Jaemin is on drumline, and therefore, logically, by association and so forth, thus…Mark.

The damp paper towel swipes a line under Mark’s chin, passing over his throat before Jeno draws it back and rings it out a bit, pours more water onto it. He removes Mark’s glasses once again, and gently brushes against Mark’s temples, cooling the skin. Then Jeno shifts, shuffling closer in his carefully balanced crouch, and brings his other hand up to comb Mark’s hair back away so that he can towel above and around Mark’s ears. Every spot the cool towel touches seems to be a trigger point for Mark, and he finds the dizziness to be slowly but surely receding.

“Wow…” he breathes, “I feel like I can live again.”

Jeno chuckles. “That’s good. You were so overheated, I thought maybe you were trying to invent a new shade of red. I mean...you’re still pretty red now, but not as much.”

Ignoring the red remark, because he’s not about to admit he’s blushing at having Jeno this close and carding soothing fingers through his hair, Mark hums.

“How did you know to do this? To cool someone off?” he asks instead, letting his eyes droop shut.

“Kids overheat at the skate park all the time,” says Jeno, tilting Mark’s head to the side, so it’s cradled in his hand, and wiping down the back of his neck. “It’s good you uh...unbuttoned the jacket. I was gonna suggest that too, but I thought it might be weird.”

Mark lets out a laugh, which must carry his breath over Jeno’s forearm.

“It’s already weird to have someone fuss over you with a bunch of soggy paper towels, don’t know why that would have made it any weirder.”

Jeno’s steady palm tilts Mark’s head the other way, dabbing the other hidden side of his neck before discarding all the used towels and wetting new ones, leaving his head to rest against the wall again. A new round of chilled relief touches against Mark’s forehead, Jeno’s careful fingers lifting the sweaty hair back and lingering against Mark’s scalp.

“Didn’t want you to think I was coming on to you,” Jeno says, his voice smooth, “not right then, anyway.”

Huh? Mark thinks, blinking his eyes open and reaching for his glasses again. “Huh?” he says, too, fumbling as his fingers struggle to find the frames, but by the time his hand closes around them and gets them to his eyes, Jeno has already pulled away. Whatever his face might have explained for Mark, he’s missed.

Jeno turns away, picking up the other, unopened bottle of water and cracking the seal to lift the cap free. He holds it out to Mark, but he might as well be offering him a live mouse for all the sense Mark can make of it. His mind hasn’t grounded from the last few words, yet.

“Drink. Your internal temp is probably way too high.” Jeno doesn’t wait for Mark to catch up, just lifts one of Mark’s hands and transfers the bottle into it, directing it toward his mouth. “They’re probably wondering where you are, aren’t they? It’s almost fourth quarter.”

Oh right. Jaemin is likely panicking, and if he tried to find Mark in the bathrooms where he said he’d be, he would have already failed. Mark curses. He accidentally sloshes the water bottle while trying to get his phone out of his pocket.

“Hey, you need to drink that, not spill it,” scolds Jeno, rescuing the water with a hand steadying Mark’s wrist.

Mark offers a sheepish smile, muttering a ‘sorry’ while trying to maneuver his phone with one shaky hand. “Need to text Jaemin.”

“I’ll text him, you drink.”

The phone is out of Mark’s hand before he can argue, plastic bottle pushed into his face instead. Relenting, Mark rolls his eyes and cups both hands around the bottle, bringing it to his lips and drinking deeply. It tastes heavenly, even if it’s just water, and he appreciates Jeno being a little bossy if it means he can focus on this delicious refreshment while still updating Jaemin on his whereabouts. Jaemin, who Jeno also knows. Jaemin, who would probably be giving Mark such a shit-eating grin right now if he saw Mark getting worried over by his crush. Jaemin, who is one of the few people who even _knows_ Mark likes Jeno, because of just recently when Mark texted to ask him what he knew about the cute, semi-famous skater boy in his class with the warm eyes and the hot lip piercing—

Mark coughs suddenly, half-swallowing a swig of water and half spitting it everywhere, quite glamorously, as he scrambles to get his phone back. “Wait, don’t—!”

Startled, Jeno stumbles back off his toes, falling out of his crouch and out of Mark’s reach to sit on the concrete and stare at Mark with wide eyes, the phone still in one hand while he catches himself deftly with other. They stare at each other for a breath, Mark frozen in fear trying to read whether Jeno’s already seen too much or not, and Jeno looking like he’s lost a year of his life in shock.

Then, Jeno’s face alters, his normally agreeable smile turning just slightly impish.

Mark swallows thickly.

“So.” Jeno’s head tilts an inch to the side. “I texted Jaemin.”

“You...you did. Ok. Thanks.”

“No problem.” His tongue darts out over the metal in his lip. A beat. “You like the piercing, huh?”

Mark’s hope vanishes, and he leans away with a prolonged groan of embarrassment, his heartbeat running wild as he tries to curl against the brick and maybe just...osmose through it. Jeno is laughing, obviously at him, and Mark twinges a little thinking he could at least be nicer about it. Even with his somewhat edgy appearance, Jeno’s always seemed so nice, which is part of how Mark’s idle crush developed in the first place.

Fingers pull at Mark’s shoulder, trying to nudge him back. “Hey.”

“Thanks for all the help, Jeno, but if you can just leave me here until Jaemin comes to drag me away, that’d be great.”

“Mark,” Jeno ignores him, still giggling. “Look at me for a second.”

“I’m good.”

“Mark.”

The way he says it, laughter in his voice giving way to something like giddiness, piques Mark’s curiosity. He turns cautiously back around, still sticking to the wall for support but trying to read Jeno’s grinning face. He can’t.

Jeno has angled forward again, kneeling with the toes of his beat-up skate shoes propped on the concrete. “Do I seem like someone who likes high school football games?”

Although appearances can be deceiving, Mark shakes his head. “Not really?”

“And yet, here I am.”

Edging forward, Jeno shifts into Mark’s space a little more, his eyes wandering over his face. He lifts a hand up and brushes a few dangling strands of hair off Mark’s brow.

“Do I seem like someone who likes marching band boys?”

A weird pang goes through Mark’s chest, because _no, he doesn’t,_ which is exactly why Mark never approached him before now. But Mark is a drummer, and drumming is all about patterns. He can recognize the start of a pattern when he hears one, even if it doesn’t make sense to him. So he follows it, hesitantly saying, “Not really?”

“And yet, here I am.”

“Oh.” Mark knows this means something important, that something critical should be clicking for him, but between recovering from near heatstroke and his current proximity to the cutest, kindest, skateboard-riding boy he’s ever had the misfortune to crush on...he cannot add things up. “Can you like, summarize that for me? I don’t think I get it. You don’t like football, but you’re at a game, and you don’t like band geeks, but—”

Jeno interrupts with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Alright, so indirect isn’t gonna work. Tell me if this is clear enough for you, Mark Lee.”

He leans forward and kisses Mark. It’s nothing too earth-shattering, nothing too hot and heavy—which, thank god, Mark thinks, because any hotter and he definitely would pass out—but Jeno’s lip ring presses against Mark’s lips, the warm metal smooth and firm as Jeno’s bottom lip sits perfectly between his own two, and it’s all Mark can do not to find it with his teeth and tug. Despite his state, he shivers.

Then it’s over. Jeno pulls back and fixes his adorable smile on Mark, his hand resting lightly on Mark’s shoulder. “You’re right that I don’t like football.” As he talks, he gently slips Mark’s phone into its owners pocket. “But I do like at least one band geek, enough to show up if he’s playing, and maybe make sure he doesn’t pass out when he suddenly runs off the field. You get me?”

Mark nods. He doesn’t know what to say. He could never have predicted that overheating in a wool marching band uniform would end with getting confessed to. The long-forgotten bottle of water has tipped over and started seeping into Mark’s pant leg, but it’s unimportant—he has to say something.

“Thanks for liking me? _Helping_ , thanks for helping, shit..I...like you too?”

“Cute. I mean, cool.” A light red fills Jeno’s cheeks momentarily, and Mark marvels to realize he’s managed to make this cool, collected boy blush. Jeno glances toward the field. “Ah, there’s Jaemin. I’ll see you later, ok Mark?”

“Um, yeah, ok.”

Jeno stands and brushes off his skinny jeans; he aims a wink at Mark, then grabs his board and darts into the parking lot, kicking off the asphalt and rolling cleanly away. Mark watches him, still as marble like he’s a gargoyle on the wall. When a puffing Jaemin arrives a minute later, the disbelief still hasn’t worn off.

“Was that Jeno Lee?” asks Jaemin, voice high with surprise as he points towards the skater’s retreating figure.

Nodding slowly, Mark drags himself to his feet and picks up his hat, brushing off the grass and wobbling slightly. “I’ll tell you about it later, right now I think I need help walking,” he replies, not bothering to re-button his jacket.

Jaemin loops an arm under his. “Yeah, sure. You feeling okay?”

“No, I think you’re gonna have to take over for me.”

“Oh, really?! Sure!” Jaemin brightens, his concern easily replaced with excitement. Mark knows he’s been eyeing the lead position, just waiting for Mark to graduate. Some friend.

“Yeah, thanks for being so ready to replace me.” Jaemin falters, and Mark laughs. “I’m kidding. I just need to be in my car in the air conditioning as fast as possible.”

With Jaemin’s help they make it to Mark’s gently used Toyota fairly quickly, and Mark makes him take the easily removable pieces of the uniform back to launder with the rest after the game. He’ll worry about the pants later, once he’s fully recovered.

The air conditioning feels like bliss the moment his car starts, icy air washing over his skin. After a few minutes, Mark’s shirt starts to feel frozen, so he turns the temperature to something more moderate and relaxes, letting himself forget about the game and how Jaemin’s probably enjoying himself far too much, ordering the rest of the line around. Instead, his mind drifts to soft crescent eyes and an angular jaw, to purposeful, cooling touches on his skin, and the feeling of lips pressed to his with metal between. The memory makes his heart race again, and for all his music training he can’t figure out the time signature of it.

His phone buzzes, and Mark removes it from his pocket expecting to see a message from Jaemin with the score of the game. But it isn’t—instead, it’s from a new contact he’s sure he wasn’t the one to enter.

**_[9:45pm]_ **

**_[from: future bf]_ **

_hey, its jeno. go out with me sometime? kinda wanna see if i can make u dizzier than today_

 

**_[9:47pm]_ **

**_[from: marching mark lee]_ **

_oh my god_

_-_

 

**Author's Note:**

> fdshdhjdfhdjk i need to stop but famous beautiful and unpredictable, pierced-lip lee brothers?? I lov it.
> 
> i may or may not tweet an alternate ending for this...(i will. probably.) ((edit:: i did. reem made me.)) (((permalink added for the twt, click: [here](https://twitter.com/imjaebabie/status/1085421822873649152?s=21))))
> 
> i survive on comments here and questions on my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ImJaeBabie)   
> or say hi on twitter (new!) @imjaebabie


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